The Trail
by noodles
Summary: a compilation of four stories in an incomplete series.
1. The Trail

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Disclaimer: Harry Potter and anything related to him do not belong to me. Don't I wish they did.

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The Trail

I am following The Man with the Lightning Scar. A man that my father calls "friend", though they haven't spoken in thirty years. A man who has faced evil in its most powerful form and won. A man who has saved the world on more than one occasion. A man who has become such a legend within his own lifetime that many of my generation think of Him as a fairy-tale, a myth. A man that I have never seen yet would recognize immediately. 

I have called Him "The Man with the Lightning Scar" from very early into my journey. I had been traveling for about a month when I came to a small village where He had been. That is the name given to Him by an old, nearly deaf woman that I met there. It was difficult to make her understand anything that I said, but eventually she answered my questions and pointed me in the right direction. The title she gave Him stayed in my mind and managed to replace His proper name. It seems more fitting, somehow.

I follow Him on foot; I'm not sure why. Perhaps it is because that is the way in which He travels. It somehow seems unfair to claim the advantage of a train or even a broomstick when He, who is so much more powerful, does not. Perhaps I am a fool. It's very possible. I know that my brothers and sisters all think so. But my father is unable to make the journey himself, and he asked me to do this for him. I want to do it right. 

It makes some sort of sense that I should be the one entrusted with this mission, as it was I who was given the name of the one who caused the split between the two friends- my father and The Man with the Lightning Scar. She did nothing wrong, and yet her actions led to a division not easily mended. While they were still in school together, she sacrificed her own life to save both of theirs, her two closest friends. Her selfless death, and the resultant victory over the evil forces at work, tore the two boys apart rather than bringing them closer together. They both felt such guilt that they had survived when their friend had been killed that each was unable to face the other. But now my father needs Him. And I am the one who must bring them back together.

-----

I feel that I am getting closer. The air is filled with an electricity that I have never felt before. The leaves seem to rustle in excitement and I take each step with anticipation. I have been on this trail for nearly a year. I wonder if I am getting better at the chase, or if He is slowing down. I wonder if He wants to be found. I believe that He must, or else He would not leave clues for me to find. More and more people of the people that I question are able to give me answers. More and more of the proximity spells that I cast give affirmative answers. Eagerly I await the time when my journey is completed. Will I know what to say?

-----

I see a small cottage before me. The time is nearly twilight; the fireflies are beginning to come out. There is no other building within sight. Somehow I know that my quest is nearly over. Inside that cottage is the man whom I have been following, The Man with the Lightning Scar. I approach cautiously, raise my hand to knock. But before I am able to touch the wooden door, I hear one word.

"Come."

I turn the knob and the door opens noiselessly. At long last, I see Him. He is standing at the other end of the small room, facing the fireplace, His back towards me. His hands are resting on the mantel; His head is down, looking at the blazing fire that warms the cottage on this cool autumn evening. He does not turn to look at me as I step across the threshold. Instead, he speaks, again only one word.

"Hermione."

It does not surprise me that He knows my name. It would have surprised me had He not. I could easily believe that such a man knows everything. I address Him, by His real name.

"Harry Potter."

Now He turns. I see black hair, piercing green eyes, a small sad smile. And on His forehead, the scar- His souvenir, His proof that He has survived the worst trial that the world can produce to test Him. He looks tired, as if He has had to live through twice as much as any other person alive. However, when I look at Him, I feel safe. His aura is one of security and confidence. It is easy to understand why so many people don't believe that He ever really existed. Even seeing Him now, He seems too real to be real. I can't explain it in words. I won't try.

A few seconds pass, then He take a few steps closer to me. He examines me closely. 

"You look exactly like your Aunt Ginny."

And then I know that everything is going to be all right.

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Finis


	2. The Trailed

I haven't been sleeping much of late. I've trained myself not to need it so much. I tell myself that this is because I need to keep on the move. Need to keep going toward my destination, even though I 'm not sure exactly where it is or what I need to do when I get there. But I know that there's another reason that I don't want to sleep. A reason why sleep, when I do allow myself to rest, never comes as a comfort. It's because of the dreams. Every dream is about her. They differ by subject matter, but she is always there. 

Sometimes the dreams are memories, drawn from the time when we were still at school together. Six years of memories, all fodder for my subconscious mind to feed to me when I am helpless to resist. In these dreams- be they memories of important events or trivial occurences, whether she features prominantly or only appears in the background- in these dreams, she seems to stand out from the rest with brighter colors and a clearer voice. And when it is a memory of the three of us together, as we frequently were, then the pain hits hardest. I wake from these dreams with a beating heart and a feeling of sorrow and guilt that weighs down my shoulders and makes the next day's journey that much more arduous. 

Sometimes the dreams are events that never happened, never will happen. She and Ron and I are adults, the same age as I am now, with our own families and our own careers. We remain close, and our children tease us when we reminisce about our school days. We live happy, ordinary lives. These dreams leave me with a feeling near contentment; until I wake and realize just how impossible a scenario my mind has presented me. Those days take place in a spirit of dejection. 

Sometimes the dreams are just the two of us. I am as I am now, a man of fourty-eight with the weight of life and knowledge upon him. She is as she was before her death- not in the weeks and hours before she died, in the panic and confusion brought on by constant fear- but as she was in September of that year, fresh and happy, with the odd mix of innocence and experience that makes a not-quite-child of that age so intruiging. We talk for long hours and I tell her everything. These dreams are the rarest, but when they occur they inspire in me a bout of introspection during the waking hours even more deep than my usual attitude. 

It is from one of these dreams that I awoke this morning. For the first time, she talked to me other than to respond to my thoughts. She told me that I am being followed. That the one who was given her name is on my trail, and that I am to go with her when she finds me. But I must keep moving to the correct place, though I don't know where that is. I don't understand how I am supposed to know where to go or how I will recognize my follower. But she was confindent that I would. Who am I to argue with a dream? 

------- 

I walk for many days over many miles of streets, paths, trails, and grass. My journey has no recognizable pattern; my feet determine where I walk rather than my brain. I pass through cities, towns, small villages. Sometimes I talk to people. The people that recognize me- just by reputation, I haven't seen anyone I actually know in years- are more likely to leave me alone. But others, curious about a stranger in their midst, question me at length. I don't give detailed answers. I just tell them that I'm a traveller. After a meal and some rest, I continue on my way. 

------ 

I think I've found my destination. I don't know why I'm here, it's only a small wooden cabin at the top of a rolling hill. There is nothing here to interest anyone, the cabin is obviously deserted, but I feel that this is where I must stop. I gather some firewood to fight the approaching chill, and I settle in to the tiny building. I am standing in front of the fire, examining the shape of the flames and the patterns they cast on the walls, when I sense, rather than hear, someone approaching the door. A moment passes. Then I speak. 

"Come." 

The door opens. I hear footsteps cross the threshhold and stop just within the room. I can feel the presence of an unknown person behind me. But I know her name. I was told her name. 

"Hermione." 

Having said this, having this knowledge out in the open, I am able to turn around and look at my follower. She shows no surprise that I know her name. She speaks in turn. 

"Harry Potter." 

She is tall and thin, a young woman. Her most distinguishing feature identifies her to me at once. The long, flaming red hair of my best friend. She is clearly a relative, probably the daughter, of my surviving best friend from my school days. The one to whom I haven't been able to speak since graduation, the guilt was so strong. Why does she need my help? 

But that can wait. She is looking worried. I step toward her. 

"You look just like your Aunt Ginny." 

I wonder what the future has in store for me. I wonder why the past, which has haunted me for so long, has finally caught up with me. Where will this young woman lead me? Am I ready? 


	3. Return Trip

Disclaimer: Harry Potter is not mine, he belongs to J.K. Rowling and the fine people at Scholastic. 

Author's Note: Return Trip takes place after my previous story, The Trail, which may be found at http://www.fanfiction.net/master.cfm?action=story-read&storyid=18446 This is the first of my fics that I have completed before midnight. I hope that the quality does not suffer because I am writing while still mostly awake. Feedback will be greeted with wide smiles and a dance of joy. 

Return Trip 

The night smells like spearmint. 

The window is open in the tiny room above the bar, and the night air drifts over me as I lie in the narrow, unfamiliar bed. I breathe in, the late night smell of spearmint filling my head with memories of childhood. In a brief moment I am back at the Burrow, watching the stars with my grandparents. I am a first year student at Hogwarts, attending my first astronomy class. I am a recent graduate, walking with my father after the rest of the family is asleep, and he asks me to undertake an important task for him, take an important journey. Just for a moment of time do I revisit these memories before I bring myself back to the present. 

I had been asleep until just a minute ago, resting after nearly a week of traveling by foot and sleeping under the stars. I strain my ears, trying to locate the sound that has wakened me. Through the window I hear the muffled sound of a lone car passing, a cricket, a cat singing to his love, faint laughter from the late-night bar patrons waiting for a taxi. From the next room I hear my traveling companion softly pacing. If he ever sleeps, I have yet to witness it. He is awake when I go to sleep at night, and he is awake when I regain consciousness at sunrise. If ever I awaken during the night, he still sits on the other side of the fire with eyes open, observing everything. I had hoped that he would take the opportunity tonight of sleeping in a real bed, but it seems that I do not yet fully understand this man whom I have worked so long and so hard to find. 

I am able now to call him by his name, rather than the title that he held so long within my mind, The Man with the Lightning Scar. I also have stopped referring to him in my thoughts with a capitalized pronoun. He has become a reality in my life, and can no longer be treated as a myth or a creature to be revered. Harry Potter is a human being, and although he has become a legend within his own lifetime and although I owe my very existence to him, the time has come for this situation to be handled with the care of a responsible adult rather than a hero-worshipping child. My father is counting on me to bring him back. 

I have tried on several occasions to explain to Harry why my father needs him, but he always stops me. He gives no reason, but I think that either he is trying to postpone the inevitable or he wants to hear everything from the lips of his old friend. We talk very little, traveling in silence. I hope that it is not that he finds my presence painful, that he wants to forget the existence of this girl who has stolen the name of the one that died to save him. She died to save my father as well, so in a way she is my benefactress, despite the fact that I have never met her. But though I am talented with witchcraft, divination is not my strong suit, and I can not claim to know the thoughts of another person. I turn my mind back to listening. 

I hear the door of the next room open and then close soon after. Footsteps descend the stairs at the end of the hall. It seems that Harry is returning to the bar area. I am momentarily tempted to follow, but decide that such an action would not be welcomed. I need to win his trust gradually. Following him around is not the best way to do so. 

I breathe deeply of the clean spearmint-scented air and try to empty my mind of all thoughts. There is time enough tomorrow and all the days afterward for answers. Tonight I need to rest. 

Fini 


	4. Four Steps by Three Steps

Disclaimer: Harry Potter isn't mine. Nothing related to him is mine. 

Author's Note: This piece comes after my previous story "The Trailed", which is a companion to "The Trail". "Four Steps by Three Steps" is a companion to my "Return Trip". I'd suggest you read the others before attempting this one. But please do read! I like feeling affirmed. This is getting complicated. 

Four Steps By Three Steps 

Four steps from the bed to the door. Three steps from the desk to the wall. Back and forth I pace the tiny room I've rented for the night. It's late; Hermione has been in bed for a few hours now. But I keep the light burning and my mind working. Back and forth. 

It has been two days since I last slept, and then only for twenty minutes or so. I can last longer than that. I've had to, the past several years. To avoid the dreams. I'd thought it would be safe again, now that I've been found and am returning with my follower. But two nights ago, when I tried to sleep, there she was, clearer than ever. Hermione. Not my current traveling companion, no. The original. The REAL one. Not some imitation, someone named for her. 

Four steps from the bed to the door. Three steps from the desk to the wall. 

I shouldn't say that. I shouldn't even think that. It isn't as if this new Hermione is trying to serve as a replacement. She can't help the fact that her father named her as he did. Although I can't imagine how Ron was able to deal with it, having her around constantly. A reminder of the friend he lost, the friend we both lost, just before we lost each other. To . . .what? 

To guilt? 

Three steps from the desk to the wall. Three steps from the wall to the desk. 

I wonder frequently why I am returning. Why Ron needs me now, after 30 years. And yet I won't let her tell me. Something in me doesn't want to know. Something in me wants this to be the opportunity for a happy reunion. A return to the content adult life that I have never allowed myself to have. And I know that if I hear the truth, if I let her tell me, all illusions will be shattered. I will be faced with a cold reality, harsher than any I have faced up till now. Harsher than the pain of my childhood, the tragedy that marked the end of my school years, the self-inflicted solitude of my adulthood thus far. 

I think I need a drink. 

Four steps from the bed to the door. Out the door. 

I walk quietly down the narrow staircase, careful not to make too much noise. I hear faint voices coming from the bar. When I walk in, there are only three people there. The crowd of the evening has returned home. I sit on a stool at the end of the bar. Before I am able to order, the bartender reaches under the bar and pulls out a bottle and a mug, of which he pours the contents of the former into the latter. He set the mug in front of me. "On the house, Mr. Potter." 

I nearly knock over my drink in my surprise. I am not used to being recognized on sight any more. And the fact that this man running a Muggle bar knows my name, even after I signed the register for the room with an alias (Neville Longbottom), means that he must be a wizard. I take a sip of my drink to settle my nerves and I receive my second surprise of the night. Butterbeer. That warm, sweet flavor that I have not experienced since my days at Hogwarts. Here. In a Muggle establishment with a wizard proprietor. Amazing. 

The bartender smiles at me with an expression that suggests a shared secret. I want to ask him so many questions, I want to hear his story, but he moves to serve his other patrons. I finger the scar on my forehead self-consciously. I am returning to the world, and once again this mark means something. Am I to be reminded of its significance every day once again? Am I ready for this? 

I finish my drink slowly, nursing it until the sun begins to rise. When it is gone, the last drop consumed, I push the mug away from me and lay my head in my arms for a moment. I am starting to realize that this journey is a reality. I close my eyes with a sigh, wondering. And for the first time in nearly as long as I can remember, sleep comes. Peacefully. 

There are no dreams. 

Fini. 


End file.
